


The Endless Waltz

by FleetingMadness



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, I have no idea what else to tag this if I'm honest, Pain, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2021-01-01 18:42:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21147446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetingMadness/pseuds/FleetingMadness
Summary: Sometimes processing your feelings looks a lot like hitting someone with an axe.





	The Endless Waltz

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains descriptions of violence and pain. None of it is super beyond the realm of canon, just with much more detail than the game ever goes into. Enjoy!

T’chaanqa launched herself at Zenos with such force that her bare shoulder dented the armor plates on his stomach. Whatever smug taunt had been pouring from his lips was cut short as the air was forced from his lungs. She planted her feet as she landed, throwing her axe in an upward swing that carried Zenos’ helmet with it. Zenos looked down at her, his lips raising into a smile, and stabbed her in the arm.

The pain from a katana cut always came about two seconds after the blade itself had passed. The body took that long to notice it was bleeding, and from there, that it had been cut. A stab wound was different; the steel stayed in place, separating the flesh, chilling it, reminding every nerve of the invader that so effortlessly parted it. She shuddered as the pain rolled through her, first sharp and cold and shallow, but so soon after, becoming a deep burn that pulsed through her whole right half.

She had always thought the katana was a weapon ill-suited to Zenos. The blade was strong, true, but it lacked weight, designed as it was for finesse and precision. Zenos fought with force overwhelming, an approach Chaanqa felt best suited to an axe or a broadsword. Yet, each time the folded steel cut into her (like a hot knife through butter, she couldn’t help but think), the choice made a visceral sort of sense. No axe or broadsword cut so effortlessly, or left such slim scars.

He was beaming down at her now. Rather than pull away from the wound, she did what the Beast told her: step in (_Yes, do drive that sword deeper_, Fray said, before she shoved them back down), swing with all her might (the strongest blows come from the core, not the arms), and roar (▒██▒████▒█). Zenos stopped the axe with a carelessly raised forearm. His armor gave in with a hideous scraping crunch, but the only sign he had felt anything was the slightest tightening of his eyes. She would have missed it—anyone would—had she not been staring into them.

“Very good, little mongrel,” Zenos said. He said more, but she didn’t hear it. Iron stung her nose, the Dalamud-red gleam of her opponent’s blood on her silver axe head drew her eye, and the blood storming through her head and down her arm filled her ears. The sword pulled back, leaving her feeling empty, almost hollow, for the second it took for the new pain to replace it; a loud ache that left her able to focus on the fight, but not completely. 

She had mastered the Beast long before she was given her soul crystal, or had even met Gorge. It had always been a part of her, the urge to fight and be fought, to hurt and be hurt, to bleed and be bled. It was inside her, every day, screaming for release with every swing of her axe and every bite of meat. Every day, she fought down the Beast, she quieted the screaming and the bloodlust and the rage at nothing, because she had learned, bitter and early, that others would fear it.

She planted her foot on Zenos’ thigh and shoved with all her strength. He stumbled back a pace, but she launched back five, skidding as her clawed greaves scarred the ground. They each took one step forward, and their weapons met with a sound that almost pierced the red mist around her senses. Again and again she swung, and again and again her arc was skewed by Doman steel. In the back of her mind, the part usually reserved for spotting enemies who weren’t hitting her yet, she wondered if he was even trying to hit her. 

The jolt of clashing weapons was a delight to her. The shockwave running up her arms after her weapon dug into her hands was the closest she could get to touching the desire to kill her. In denying her this simple joy, anyone else would have earned her most literal undying wrath. Zenos was different. The glancing blows that would feel unsatisfying from anyone else were, from him, teasing. They were a promise, or perhaps it was the pointed refusal to promise, that kept her from varying her strikes too much.

She knew the Scions were afraid of her. How could they not be? Under all Thancred’s quips, behind Urianger’s flowery explanations, even with Minfilia’s unending sincerity, they had seen her take Twelve know how many lives. They had watched her kill generals with a smile. Hells, Alphinaud had seen her get raked across the face by Garuda’s claws, only to step forward and rip her wing off with one hand on her axe. They loved her, and she loved them, but with that came a keen awareness of the worst case scenario. That was why, one drunken night in Ul’dah, she had made Thancred promise to put a knife in her neck if she ever lost control.

The tip of his katana flicked to the side, and their blades passed each other in the air. Her axe split his armor and thigh alike; his sword slipped through the buckle on her harness, taking a sliver of muscle with it.

Chaanqa screamed. Or perhaps it was a roar. She could feel the sound in her throat, but the only thing she could hear was her bleeding and his breath, not yet ragged but fraying on the edges. Her scars from their last battle echoed their old pain, but it was a shadow of the delight she felt from these fresh wounds.

The Scions loved her—Alisae loved her—but they could not understand the hold the Beast had on her. Even Gorge viewed the Beast as an enemy, to be conquered and dominated. Chaanqa felt differently. She loved the Beast, its primal rage and reckless desire for all that delightful blood and pain. It was joy, and lust, and power.

Another cut, this time across her stomach. Blood seeped into the fresh seam in her leather armor. She gave back a gash down his chest. She thought she heard a bone crack, but it was hard to separate from the sound of splitting armor.

She was in pure violent bliss. Each spark of unique feeling— the strain of a muscle, the shifting of a cut— stirred her to swing harder, to scream louder, to smile wider, to move closer to the source of this delightful, familiar, somehow entirely unique agony.

Zenos understood her completely. Though she could never call him a friend, she had been forced to admit to herself that he was the first truly kindred spirit she had known.

Another wound taken, another given. Zenos planted one of his swords in the ground, and Chaanqa launched herself away from it on reflex.

This was perfect. This was ecstasy. This is why she held an axe.

She hadn’t wanted to kill him. Somewhere along the way, the fate of two nations became more important to her than the best fight of her life, so when she saw the opening, she listened to Fray (for once) and took it.

She pounced, tail brushed and lowered, and brought her axe down with all her strength, shattering the ground that had, half a second earlier, been beneath Zenos’ feet.

Her muscles screamed in protest with every move. Her head felt light from blood loss. She had never felt so turned on.

She never dreamed she would fight him again. This time, with nobody’s life at stake but her own, she would never have to kill him again.

* * *

“I must admit,” Elidibus said, staring into the white space, “It seems to be working better than I had expected.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Emet-Selch spoke with naked pride. “So elegant in its simplicity. Now that the rest of those meddling reflections are split even further, all that remained was to keep their precious Warrior of Light in one place, out of our path. And there really is no better way to keep someone in a prison than to ensure they don’t wish to leave it.” Emet-Selch laughed; Elidibus stayed silent. “And to think, I almost had to befriend those sad little things. Me! Though I can’t imagine you’d have been any happier with me assuming your usual role than I would be to fill it.”

“And what do you propose we do now?” Elidibus had let Emet-Selch ramble a little more than usual, to celebrate his victory, but enough was enough.

“What else?” Emet-Selch smiled. “We do exactly what we set out to do.”


End file.
